Harmony
by Mirror and Image
Summary: [complete] When Trowa and Quatre first meet, what exactly happens? How does one define what Harmony between people really is?


**Harmony**  
By Mirror and Image

* * *

Quatre had long since stopped playing his violin. He was listening to the pilot that had surrendered himself to him. This youth seemed to be mute. This stranger hadn't said anything since Quatre brought him to his base. But now that he was listening to the flowing notes and music from the flute, Quatre knew that this boy did know how to speak, and when he did, he spoke volumes.

Quatre just stood in amazement as he watched this pilot play. The music flew from the flute and engulfed the large room. The sound bounced and reverberated, filling Quatre with its song.

He marveled at this strange youth. He was just so _different_. Quatre had never met anyone so quiet. He would have initially described him as withdrawn had the pilot not joined him with the flute. His bangs covered almost half his face, hiding his expressions, or perhaps impressions, from everyone. And his eyes were so sad; it was almost more than Quatre could bear. How could someone as young as him carry so much sadness? And how could he _hold_ it? Quatre got the impression that no one knew this pilot, and that was how he wanted it. This boy seemed very complex. He never let anyone get close. Ever. Quatre wondered why he felt that way. Why did he not want anyone to know him? To feel for him? Why did he not want anyone to understand him?

Quatre's thoughts continued to stray until the pilot started a different song on his flute. Quatre recognized the tune, and joined in. The two once again played together, their instruments playing with the other, challenging and countering and daring the other. Quatre listened as the music fill the room again. He had never thought that the violin and the flute could play against each other so well. It was a mix-matched pair. Much like him and this strange guest of his. The violin was a string instrument, tightly wound and carefully plucked and moved by the bow. It required great care, lest its strings become out of tune or break entirely. The flute by contrast was a calmer instrument, with soothing, gentle notes; everything perfectly composed, solid, and sturdy. Nothing could damage the music it produced. Could it?

Quatre suddenly became acutely aware of something. The violin and the flute were playing against each other. Albeit playfully, but they were against each other. That wasn't right. If two completely different instruments were to play, then they might as well play together. Quatre adjusted his playing accordingly, not wanting to interrupt the duet nor convey these feelings to his guest. Quatre felt that in this case, action was better than mere talk. He was right.

His guest stopped momentarily at the slight change in Quatre's violin. He stared at the blond Arabian with almost perfectly concealed surprise on his face. "Almost" only because Quatre caught the flicker of surprise before it disappeared from the freshly composed face. The young pilot seemed to consider the change, thoroughly sizing up Quatre. Then, with a simple shrug, he resumed playing with his flute, playing with the violin instead of against it.

Good. It was a start. Maybe someday he will open up to someone.

Now playing together, the music reached a new sense of beauty in Quatre's ear. He'd always appreciated music, but this strange duet was unlike anything he'd ever heard. The notes rose and fell, creating round, gradual crescendos to sudden, soft decrescendos. The music was almost alive. Quatre likened it to water trickling down a stream, the sun shining brightly down on it. The music was sparkling. It was sparkling harmony.

And then Rashid, with all the subtlety of an ox, burst into the room, effectively killing the mood.

"Master Quatre," he said, formally bowing. "I'd like to make a report."

"Sure," he replied. He put the violin down on a table. "Go right ahead." There was an awkward pause. "Well?"

Rashid gave a sidelong glance to the young Arabian's guest. The pilot did not miss it.

"I understand," he said simply. He put the flute back in the cabinet and quietly left the room, the door clicking behind him.

Quatre meanwhile was in wonder. "I understand" had been the first words he'd heard from the youth's lips, and he marveled at his voice. The boy had a soft, resonating tenor voice, much like the flute he'd been playing. It had a quiet, silky, almost soft-spoken with a sad undertone to it. But Quatre could hear the strict, military quality in it. Had this boy grown up a soldier?

"Master Quatre," Rashid said, bringing him out of contemplation.

"Sorry?"

"I said that the repairs on your gundanium mobile suit are almost complete," he repeated himself irritably. Why was his master so taken by that pilot?

"Well, that's good. How about his suit?" Quatre asked.

"I was getting to that. The repairmen have mentioned some surprise at the design of his mobile suit."

"Oh?"

"Apparently, it is also made of gundanium."

Quatre stifled a gasp. "Are they sure?"

"Master Quatre, gundanium is very difficult to fraudulate, and our mechanics know the alloy when they see it."

The young Arabian's mind started to race. "If his mobile suit is made of gundanium, then it had to have been made from outer space, right? That means he got it from space, indicating that he lived there. He was attacking the Corsica base, just like we wanted to do. So that means. . ." It all clicked very audibly in Quatre's head. "I was _right_! He _is_ my friend! This is great! I gotta go tell him!" He ran out of the room, his characteristic smile plastered on his face.

Rashid sighed heavily, and then picked up a communicator.

"Avdul?"

"Yessir?"

"Increase surveillance on Master Quatre."

"Yessir. Do you want me to increase security too?"

"No, he'd see that. Let's just have things play out."

* * *

A quiet pilot currently going by the name Trowa Barton was sitting on a bench outside an Arabic compound, his face looking contemplatively at the stars. His mind, however, was elsewhere. Mostly, they were focused on a small blond pilot who in the span of a few hours had thrown him off guard more times than his entire life put together.

Trowa couldn't help marveling a little at this strange youth. He was just so _different_. Trowa had never met anyone so kind. Once they'd returned to this base, this "Master Quatre" politely excused himself from Trowa and personally asked each and every one of his troops if they were all right. It took over an hour, because the troops were talkative and very open to the boy pilot. For an Arabian, he was incredibly pale. Trowa would have thought he was an albino were his eyes not that sea-colored green. And said eyes were so expressive. They continually changed, from happy, to concerned, to thoughtful, to surprised, to hurt, all in the span of seconds. How could anybody be that open? Hadn't this boy been hurt for expressing everything so much? Trowa got the impression that this was only the outside layer of him. This boy seemed very complex. Why did he let everyone know him? What purpose did that serve other than to leave him open for an attack? Trowa just couldn't understand him.

A quiet voice in the back of his head told him that it was time to move on. This blond pilot would do nothing but distract him from the mission. As soon as his suit was repaired, he'd leave. And that would be the end of it. Maybe some time away from this boy would do some good. It was nice to play music together, but he didn't come all the way to earth to play the flute.

Yes. Trowa definitely needed to get away before that boy could throw him any further.

"There you are!"

Damn.

"I thought you'd left before saying goodbye." The young "Quatre" half ran up to him and smiled down at him.

He knew something. Did he discover his identity perhaps?

"May I sit down?"

Trowa shrugged. Best to get the interrogation over with. The pilot sat to his left on the bench. He looked up to the sky, his eyes fixed on the stars with a far-away look. He was remembering something. Or perhaps he was admiring, Trowa wasn't sure which.

He himself looked up to the sky, remembering earlier in the day when his only thought was the music. He hadn't played in a long time, let alone with someone. There was logically no reason for it. He was, after all, this boy's prisoner. He had no right to do anything. But he listened to that violin and he just melted. For a few hours, the cold, carefully built barriers around him disappeared, and it was just the flute and himself. Trowa couldn't remember the last time music had filled him up like that. And then the Arabian started to play with him instead of against him. It startled him at first, but then he could feel it. The music, though the same song, was different. It was like he could somehow see the music. A small stream trickling down in the sunlight. Sparkling harmony. For the first time in a long time, he could feel himself. His emotions. He could have played with that violin forever.

"I wonder."

Trowa was brought out of his musical musings abruptly. He looked again at the Arabian pilot who kept him on his toes. He was still staring up to outer space.

"I wonder if the people who live here on earth realize just how beautiful everything is from here. Did you know that a few days ago I was at an oasis? I sat my suit like this," the youth sat with his hand on one raised knee, the other supporting him as he sat back, "and just watched the flamingos land on it. Sandrock looked so beautiful like that. The earth has so many wonders."

Trowa was taken aback. This pilot was from the colonies? No. More likely it was a ruse to get him to open up. Trowa kept his mouth shut. This was an interrogation after all. And this boy was poor at it. Trowa didn't have to say anything to learn that his suit was named Sandrock. Trowa made a note to look up that name once he was out of here.

"You know, I've never met anyone like you before. You're so quiet and deep. And your eyes are so sad. It's like you carry a heavy burden." The Arabian looked at Trowa for the first time that night. "I want you to know that if you ever want to talk about it, I'll listen. You can be open with me, and I won't tell anyone."

"Except for your superiors," Trowa said quietly. He couldn't figure out this boy. His eyes, ever expressive, looked for the entire world as if he meant it. This "Quatre" really wouldn't tell anyone. But that little voice in his head reminded him that this was an interrogation. Probably the most unorthodox one in history, but he had to keep himself guarded. Very guarded considering how close this blond boy was at his guessing.

"What superiors?" Trowa looked at him, surprise registering in his mind. "I don't have any superiors. Not really. Just an old professor who tells me where to strike OZ."

Trowa was trying very hard not to make strangling noises. Just who was interrogating whom here? Trowa was the prisoner, not this pale pilot. Yet without any probing, Trowa was getting information that by all rights was too classified for even this boy's troops. And the similarities between him and Trowa were making his hair stand on end.

"May I ask a question? Which colony are you from?"

"I'm not from the colonies," Trowa lied. Now things were getting a little more familiar.

"Sure you are. You must be. How else could your suit be a Gundam?"

Trowa winced. It was only a matter of time before that information was discovered. "So you know," he said simply. "You know all about me."

"No," the Arabian said. "Not really. I know that your suit is a Gundam like mine is-" What was that?? "-and that you're from the colonies like me. I also know that you're my friend. But that's about it. What's you name?"

That did it.

"Why?" Trowa asked coldly.

"Huh?"

"Why?" he repeated. "Why are you not treating me like an enemy? I attacked you, tried to kill you. But you take me to you base without trying to conceal it's location, you even go so far as to give me the grand tour, you fix my mobile suit, you play _with_ me instead of against me. You've treated me like a guest of honor. And now you say I'm your friend. Why? What on earth or the colonies makes you think that? What have I done to deserve this. . . this. . ." Trowa broke off before he finished. There was something about this Arabian that made him emotional. And he'd learned a long time ago that that was very painful. He had to put a lid on it before things got anymore out of control.

The youth stared at Trowa, blinking twice. Good. It was satisfying to know that he could be surprised as well. It took him a few minutes to recover from the surprise. Then his eyes softened and he looked back up to outer space, absently placing his hand over his heart.

"You must have grown up in the military to think that you were a prisoner. I bet you even thought I was interrogating you."

How did he _do_ that? "Weren't you?" Trowa asked cautiously.

"No. Actually I came here to tell you that our Gundams are virtually the same in design. And of course the fact that they're both Gundams. That means that we're both from the colonies, and that we're both fighting the same mission. I bet if we compared notes, we'd find a lot of bases on both lists of targets. What I'm trying to say it that we're allies. We have the same goals and missions."

Trowa nodded, letting the information sink in. "Allies perhaps. But friends?"

"Well, aren't we?" the Arabian asked. "If we really do have the same targets, then it would be advantageous for the two of us to work together. Two Gundams fighting increases our chances, and it intimidates the opponent even more. And as long as we do work together, that means that we have to get along. And the best way I know of doing that is to be friends with your fellows. And besides. I trust you."

Who _was_ this guy? Trowa looked up to the stars, trying to gather his thoughts. "But why do you trust me? What have I done to earn it?"

"The music," he replied. "You obviously thought you were a prisoner, yet you picked up that flute and played the most beautiful music I've ever heard. It was moving, poetic even. I could almost see the music. Water trickling down in a stream."

"Sparkling harmony," Trowa said, forgetting to conceal his surprise.

The boy closed his eyes, his hand still on his heart. "Yes. You saw it too. I was sure you did. When I first saw you I didn't know what to make of you. You surrendered yourself, and that indicated to me that you were honorable. And you came with me back here. You were so quiet, and I guess it intrigued me. It was a chance, I'll admit, but I felt that I could trust you. And then you joined me with the flute, and my heart just leapt up to my throat. You were placing your trust in me. That was when I knew. You were my friend. I trust you utterly. If I wanted to I could tell you every one of my plans for future missions, strategies, stats; even my whole life, my most intimate dreams, desires, fears, aspirations, and I know that if I asked you to, you wouldn't tell a soul about what I said. Maybe I wouldn't even have to ask, once we got to know each other better."

The boy opened his eyes again and looked directly at Trowa in the moonlight. "I don't even know your name, and I trust you with my life. And I want you to know that you can trust me with yours. The question, I guess, is do you?"

The ball was in Trowa's court now. His mind was racing. He couldn't believe what he'd just heard. Just by picking up the flute, he'd somehow managed to earn this fragile-looking boy's trust. Completely and utterly. No one had ever placed that much faith in him. He didn't know how to handle it. He felt a sudden hot urge to run away. He resisted that, knowing it was illogical.

He focused on his barrier. That cold wall of ice that seemed to protect him when he felt himself opening up. But to his surprise it was gone. Trowa could feel his heart opening slowly, and there was nothing to stop it. He wondered in a detached way if he should be panicking. Nothing like that registered in his mind though.

He looked to the pilot. He was so pale in the moonlight. Trowa really looked at him for the first time. He was small, almost to the point of being delicate. His boyish face seemed incandescent in the pale glow of the moon. He almost glowed. Trowa was oddly reminded of china. Smooth, white, and much too easy to break. Trowa suddenly wanted to protect this strange Arabian.

The last of his fortitude broke, and he felt his emotions well up from his heart to his head. It was dizzying. Trowa suddenly found it hard to think. His vision blurred for some reason, and he found himself blinking several times to try to focus. His eyes locked onto the sea-colored pair. They looked upon him with concern.

"Such clear eyes," Trowa whispered without even thinking. Was this what it was like to feel? And to know that someone else was willing to listen to those feelings? How remarkable.

Trowa absently raised his hand to his would-be friend. It almost touched his cheek.

"I want to trust you," he whispered, his eyes blurring again. "But. . ." Why was this so hard?

_"Those who lay eyes on a Gundam shall not live to tell about it."_ That one phrase suddenly shouted itself in Trowa's mind. What was he thinking? He couldn't get involved with this boy. Having a friend of any sort would just distract him from the mission. He'd already lost too much of what little he'd had when he accepted this war. How could he have been so blind? Damn those emotions! They always got in the way of important things.

Trowa started thinking much clearer now. He had to leave. Now. This Arabian could handle himself just fine. There was no need to protect him. There was no need to even talk to him. Too much had been said already.

Trowa had to go now, before he hurt himself anymore.

* * *

Quatre could see it. He could see it in his eyes. The pilot was starting to open up. His eyes were getting watery, like he was going to cry. And his eyes were strangely fearful. As if opening up would be painful somehow. He raised his hand, almost touching Quatre's face. He could feel the hand's warmth. He was tempted to take that hand in his, but he wanted this quiet boy to free himself by himself. It would be important to him.

"I want to trust you, but. . ."

Quatre couldn't wait. There was so much he wanted to tell this pilot. So much he wanted to share. Things he hadn't shared with anybody; not even his sisters, or Rashid.

Then, those green eyes hardened, and his body stiffened. The youth looked away, his face hot with anger. At Quatre or himself? The Arabian couldn't tell. His fellow Gundam pilot just sat there, his eyes closed and his fist clenched. Quatre had a sudden sinking feeling. He watched as the wall that this boy had so painfully built around himself was re-erected. His face resumed that composed, detached look. And when he opened his eyes, they were once again those sad, burdened eyes of before. It was like this night had never happened.

He stood up sharply, and started walking away. Quatre watched him. He suddenly felt every tired. He lowered his eyes, sad that he'd lost the opportunity to make what would have been the most important relationship of his life. His heart sank, and his shoulders started to shake as he felt the tears come.

The pilot must have seen it. "Tears will do no good," he said.

Quatre looked up.

"I have learned that tears and emotions only bring a person pain. Especially in war. Please do not hurt yourself over my decision. You can place your trust in me if you want. I will respect that as a fellow Gundam pilot. And as a pilot I thank you for your hospitality; but I will be leaving in the morning. I apologize for thinking you an enemy, and I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me."

The nameless youth turned and continued to walk away. Quatre followed him with his eyes until he entered the compound. Quatre took a deep breath and looked up to the stars.

"What do I do now?" he asked them.

They gave no reply.

Quatre sighed heavily and went back into the compound. Rashid was on him in seconds. He wanted to talk, but the young blond didn't listen. He didn't even hear him as he walked slowly down the halls, his mind lost in thought. He vaguely remember sitting down.

When he looked around, he saw that he was in the same room where this whole thing had started. The music room. The violin was still where he'd left it, on the table. Quatre picked it up and ran his fingers over the strings, remembering that beautiful music, that sparkling harmony. Numbly, he picked up the bow and started to play. He didn't know what he was playing. Nothing was really registering in his mind except that perfect music.

Clear, perfect water. The kind that almost didn't exist anymore. The gentle flow of the current as it eased over the smooth pebbles of the stream. A brilliant canopy of trees overhead, bright green. Above it was the sun, shining through to the water. Brilliant white sparkles, reflecting and shining. A warm, gentle breeze. The canopy shuddered because of it, and the sparkles jump from place to place in the stream. This was what the violin and he flute were playing that afternoon. He looked down into the stream, and he saw his reflection. His reflection and another. The other had soft, silky hair. His face half covered in bangs. He had olive colored eyes, shining brightly but sad. The two reflections looked at each other in the stream. The sun shone down on them, causing them to sparkle as well. The sad-eyed reflection was saying something, and he tried hard to listen.

_"Please do not hurt yourself over my decision."_ Quatre stopped.

_"You can place your trust in me if you want... I apologize for thinking you an enemy, and I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me. . . Please do not hurt yourself over my decision."_

"Oh," Quatre whispered, his own voice sounding very loud in the long quiet room. All the lights were out, what time was it?

"He let me place his trust in him," he whispered. He didn't trust himself to think this through, his mind was moving faster that his lips. "He apologized. He didn't want me to feel sad. He asked for forgiveness. He wants me to think that he doesn't trust me, but he said that I could trust him. He didn't want me to feel sad. He wanted me to forget about him so I wouldn't be hurt. He cares about me. He cares about me and he doesn't even realize it. He asked for forgiveness. He can't allow himself to care about me. That's why he wants me to forget. He's so afraid he'll be hurt again that he won't let anyone close. I was probably the first one he's ever let that close. He's pulling away. He's pulling away because he doesn't want to be hurt again. That's why he asked for forgiveness. He hurt me so that I wouldn't think about him. But then he turned around and showed me that he cares."

He smiled. He wanted to laugh, but he didn't want to wake anyone up.

"I'm finally beginning to understand you."

* * *

"Do you have to go? I won't ask you to stay. But at least tell me your name. My name is Quatre Raberba Winner."

"I don't have a name. But you can call me Trowa. Trowa Barton, that is."

"Thank you, Trowa. Good luck."

"Master Quatre, are you sure it's alright to just let him go like that? Now that he knows where our base is..."

"Don't worry. He doesn't seem to be a guy with a big mouth."

"But what if he comes back with enemy troops?"

"I almost wish he did. Then at least I'd see him again." Quatre looked out his window and watched Trowa Barton leave. "I may never see him again," he said quietly. "But I know that he will always be with me, at least in part."

Rashid looked at his young master. "How can you be sure? He couldn't even bring himself to trust you."

Quatre looked at him sharply. "How--? You were _spying_ on me??"

"Of course, master Quatre. We still don't know about that boy with the Gundam. I'm not going to take any chances when it comes to you."

"Look, Rashid, your concern is touching, but you don't have to worry about him. He won't do anything to betray my trust in him. The same I wouldn't do anything to betray his trust an me. And before you even say anything, he does trust me. He just won't admit it." The young Arabian looked out the window again.

"Someday, when this war is over. We'll get together. And we'll play that music again."

* * *

"We'll play that sparkling harmony," Trowa vowed.

"What was that Trowa?"

"Nothing, Catherine. Just making a promise." He finished getting into his costume and reached for his mask.

"Oh really? To whom?"

Trowa stared at his mask, not wanting to put it on. But he had no choice.

"To a . . . friend." He put it on and went out into center ring.

* * *

**THE END**

Halo all. Mirror here, seeing how Image is on the floor praising God she finished this in the limited amount of time she had. Just so you understand, we're fairly new to GW, as in we started watching it about halfway through the first run-through on Cartoon Network. *Yeah yeah, we know.* So when the time came to describe Trowa's voice, we only had the dub to go by. Please forgive us, but we _are_ looking for the sub out there. We've been wandering the Gundam web for a while, and Image saw a doujinshi of what happened between those episodes. Well, this is, mostly, her interpretation. I helped Image by adding a few ideas (like comparing Quatre to china and helping her with writers block) and voila! Okay people, this story was meant to be ambiguous. ie-everything said can be interpreted as friendship. If you want to see a 3+4 relationship, read betweeen the lines. Please tell us what you think.


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